


Christmas Songs

by tarlie



Series: Record Shop AU [2]
Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: A terrifying preponderance of Blairs, Gordon Brown loves mince pies, Highly unrealistic Christmas snow, Human beings drink eggnog as though it's not a foul stain on the collective conscience of the race, MULTIPLE CHRISTMAS PARTIES God save Gordon Brown, Tony attempts to do things in a car that are likely illegal, Ubiquitous mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:12:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarlie/pseuds/tarlie
Summary: It's Christmas. There's snow, excessive consumption of mince pies, and kissing (not always of each other).





	1. Work

 

Gordon wants to talk. In private. That ought to be a less daunting prospect than it used to be, but Tony has discovered to his cost that his idea of what a private talk with one’s boyfriend should entail is very different from Gordon’s. Tony feels it should at least involve snogging on Gordon’s desk, ideally some grinding, and possibly a detour to the shop toilets for a quickie, but Gordon, being Gordon, is invariably Gordonesque about these things, and so a talk in private means just that, a talk, just as it always has.

Gordon, he realises, has been talking for some time, and his frown has grown several degrees deeper. Tony smiles at him, sunny as ever.         

“You’re not listening,” Gordon complains, crossing his arms.        

“I am,” Tony lies, attempting to kiss him. Gordon backs away, and Tony sighs. “You’ve been complaining about Robin.”         

This isn’t exactly a guess; even with his mind wandering elsewhere, part of him is always paying attention to Gordon. God’s eye is on the sparrow, and Tony’s is, more or less, always on Gordon. God, of course, likely doesn’t keep His eye on the sparrow due to the need to ensure the harmony and efficient running of His shop, but Tony does admit that he likely wouldn’t be quite so diligent about it without Gordon’s eternal faint surprise at how well Tony knows him. He likes it, too, Tony is sure. People like to be understood.

Even if it had been a guess, it would have been a good one. Gordon is always complaining about Robin.          

“You gave him money this morning?” Gordon asks, suspicion peppering his words. He’s still frowning. He normally is.          

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” Tony asks nonchalantly. “I thought you did. Yes, I was giving him money.”         

Gordon opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it again. Tony can see it in his face how badly he wants to ask what are you up to, but he also doesn’t want to have to ask Tony anything, because that would put Tony in a position of power. Whilst Gordon refrains from asking outright, he can sulk until Tony yields to improve his mood, thereby retaining the upper hand, but not when Tony knows the sulking is simply a ploy to gain his cooperation, which shifts the balance of power back to him, but only for the moment, since Tony knows Gordon will try to circumvent him and discover what he’s up to anyway, at which point… he loses track of who, exactly, would have the advantage there. They play these games over everything. It should be maddening. It is, in some ways, but it’s also interesting, and sometimes spills into the bedroom, which is amazing.

“If you’re doing something illegal–” Gordon warns at last, irritated.

“It isn’t,” Tony assures him, smug.

“If you are, I’m not bailing you out, and neither is Peter.”

“Understood,” Tony replies in mock-obedience. Peter would definitely bail him out, he thinks, and Gordon knows it, judging by the way he’s uncertainly attempting to flatten his hair. Tony, confident that he’s currently winning whatever game they’re playing today, decides to press his advantage. “Can we do presents now?” he asks with the puppy eyes he knows Gordon’s weak for.

Gordon unfolds his arms with a shrug. He’d been reluctant to do presents at all; Tony had only mollified him into it by promising a £5 roof, but he’d known perfectly well that allowing Gordon to spend too much would have made him sullen and tetchy. So Tony had suggested the roof. Which meant they did presents. Tony reckons he won that one.          

Tony rummages around in his backpack to produce what is, unmistakably, a shoddily-wrapped mug. (No mug in human history, Tony is convinced, has ever been well-wrapped. They aren’t designed for it.) Gordon eyes it gingerly before ripping through the paper and rolling his eyes as he realises what the joke is.        

“ _I LOVE MY BOSS_ ,” he reads, dry and humourless.

Tony’s smile is resplendent.

“Oh, Gordon. I didn’t expect you to be the first to say it.” Gordon doesn’t laugh. “So,” Tony adds, without missing a beat, “what did you get me?”

Gordon puts the mug down and reaches into his pocket, producing a small red card from his wallet.

Tony recognises it instantly– no card in the world is quite so flimsy or easily scratched– but he reads it out anyway.

“Labour Party Membership Card,” Tony says with a grin, full of a sudden, aching fondness.        

“Yours had lapsed,” says Gordon, clearly disapproving. “I renewed it.”         

“Of course you did,” Tony breathes. Of _course_ Gordon is the kind of person who would think of this. “Thank you.” He slips the card into his own wallet, trying hard not to look quite as disgustingly besotted as he feels.          

Judging by the bright shade of Labour red Gordon’s ears turn, he fails completely.

“Don’t let it lapse again,” Gordon mumbles, clearly embarrassed, and Tony realises he’s still staring.

“I won’t,” he vows, leaning over the desk to kiss him; this time, Gordon doesn’t draw away. “Merry Christmas, Gordon.”

Tony feels like today will be a very, very good day.

 

* * *

 

They close early, and Christmas cheer spreads through the shop, holding at bay the usual squabbling of petty arguments, accusations of favouritism and diametrically opposed opinions. Even Gordon and Robin seem less belligerent towards one another, both more absorbed in drinking Harriet’s absurdly strong eggnog and demolishing the gingerbread men Gordon brought along (Ed’s: Gordon didn’t _say_ they were Ed’s, but Tony is pretty sure the one he’s currently eating has been iced to resemble John Maynard Keynes. Unless it’s Peter from his moustache-wearing days). Tony feels very glad to be around them, the brilliant and impossible jerks. He watches, laughing, as Harriet drunkenly attempts to explain to Gordon that the gingerbread economists are sexist, then wonders if he should refill his own glass.

Margaret beats him to it, smiling. She’s found a Christmas cracker crown somewhere; she’s wearing it slightly askew, and the result is delightfully comical.

“You’ve made a good job of the party,” she tells him, pouring a generous amount of eggnog into his glass. “It’s always a pain to organise, but you’ve done well this year.”

“We all did,” Tony replies, politely; this, at least, he’d done mostly on his own. “It’s been good, has it not?”

He knows Margaret loves the shop enough that seeing it do so well has made her happy. People should be happy at Christmas, Tony thinks. All the time, but especially at Christmas. Christmas is very, very good.

“It’s been a... weird year,” Margaret says, thoughtfully. She sees the confusion on his face and continues, “you know. Losing John. Getting used to you owning the place.”

“Oh.” Tony blinks. Of course, she still missed John. The seven months since his death feel like a century to Tony. “Yeah, of course.”

“I do miss him,” she admits. “A lot. But I think he would have liked to see the store doing so well, despite all the…”

“Fuss?” Tony provides helpfully. She smiles and shrugs. John is a little scar on their memory, but one that they like to touch fondly.

“Good fuss, though,”  she adds, clinking her glass against his. “To John.”

“To John,” he agrees.

Margaret drinks a sip of her eggnog and then pulls a face, screwing up her nose in shock.

“Bloody hell,” she complains. “What’s in this, pure ethanol? Paint stripper?”

“I have no idea,” Tony admits cheerfully. He quite likes it made like this. “You could ask Harriet. Are you two going to the sisterhood thing together this year?”

Margaret makes another face at that.

“Yes, but don’t call it a sisterhood.”

“Well, what it called, then?”

“It’s a... it’s an exclusively female gathering.”

“A sisterhood, then,” Tony says, laughing. Margaret rolls her eyes. “You could just go to Peter’s, you know. It’s always brilliant.”

“Oh, I’m sure– Alastair Campbell spinning for the worst human beings in London,” she mocks, shaking her head. “No thanks.”

“Well, what is Christmas for, if not for reading feminist poetry and discussing how men killed…” Tony stops, unsure how to finish the sentence. “What did we kill this year?”

Margaret shrugs, slightly bored.

“What haven’t you killed?” she asks. Tony supposes she’s right. She frowns for a moment as something occurs to her. “Doesn’t Gordon spend Christmas with the kids?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Is he skipping it this year?”

Tony sighs the sigh of a martyr.

“No. We’re doing that too.”

“So, after here you’re going to Ed’s and then Peter’s? Three Christmas parties?”

“Four,” Tony says, ticking them off on his fingers. “Here, Ed’s, Peter’s and my dad’s in between.”

“Ambitious,” she remarks. “How are you going to deal with all that?” He twirls his glass of eggnog theatrically at her.

“A _lot_ of these.”

She laughs.

“Good luck,” she says, before glancing over at Gordon. “It’s probably him I should be saying that to, though.”

Tony watches Gordon absently eating his way through the stollen and singing with Harriet to the Sinatra version of _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,_ voice echoing pleasantly through the store. Gordon doesn’t need luck anymore. He has something far better taking care of him.

Gordon, he realises, has stopped singing, something outside catching his eye.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Not _today_.”

Harriet and Robin abandon their thumb-wrestling (Harriet 2: Robin 1) to turn and follow his gaze; The looks on their faces tell Tony all he needs to know. Gordon is already on his feet, quietly seething.

“ _Every_ Christmas,” Margaret complains.

They ignore the _Closed_ sign on the door, of course, barging in anyway. Jez is wearing a Christmas hat, and a false white beard over his own real one. Mac has a huge bell. Diane is holding a rather empty-looking jar.

“SUPPORT REVOLUTIONARY ART THIS CHRISTMAS!” Mac screams, shaking the bell. “COME ON YOU BOURGIE SCUM, SUPPORT REVOLUTIONARY ART FOR ONCE!”

“GET OUT,” Gordon screams back, pointing at the door. “The store is _closed_!”

The thing about Gordon quietly seething, Tony thinks, is that he never does it quietly for long.

“We’re raising money to screen Ken Loach films!” Diane protests. “It’s Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Jez adds, not quite seeming to have heard anything they’ve been saying.

“Merry Christmas, Jez,” Harriet replies politely.

“Nice beard,” Robin adds.

“Guys, the store is _closed,”_ Tony explains. “And even if we were open, you’re all banned. You were banned by _Neil_.”

“You broke my nose, you heartless capitalist,” Mac rages, “so the fucking _least_ you could do is–”

The eye-rolling at this is collective and very close to synchronised. Tony feels an unusual sense of pride in his ridiculous little staff. Gordon points at the door.

“Out, or I’ll call the police.”

“Gordon, we only need £50,” Diane says, proffering the jar. “Robin? Harriet? Margaret, you were once a real person.”

“No way,” Harriet says.

“I _am_ a real person!” Margaret snaps.

Robin sighs and drops a fiver in the jar. Gordon glares at him, which is probably why he did it in the first place, Tony thinks.

“You three really can’t be here,” he repeats.

“Fuck off, Blair!” Mac yells, grabbing half a dozen shortbreads. “Can’t you stop being horrible on holiday, even a neoliberal one devoted to the perpetuation of Western capitalist values?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Tony replies blithely.

“Give those back,” Gordon demands.

“Oh? And what if I don’t?” Mac asks, helping himself to another handful.

“Mac, stop stealing biscuits,” Diane whines. “There’s no point taking them, Jez is vegan and I’m lactose intolerant.”

“It’s Christmas!” Mac yells, “and they’re denying us charity!” 

“Put them down,” Gordon orders again.

They stare at one another for a few long, uneasy seconds, as everybody else wonders if there’s going to be a fight. Tony brushes Jez aside to put a hand on Gordon’s shoulder.

“Don’t bother,” he says in Gordon’s ear. “He’s hardly worth it, is he?” Gordon blinks and relaxes his stance, sharing a look with Tony. It’s all posturing, of course, but Tony has _plans_ for tonight and there’s really no sense in having Gordon needlessly angry and stressed anyway, not at Christmas.

“Yeah,” Mac snaps, stuffing his jacket with yet more shortbread. “Do as your _master_ tells you.”

“Get the _fuck_ –” Gordon yells, and Mac screams something unintelligible back. Jez scuttles backwards and Gordon pushes Tony away as they argue. Diane is already on the other side of the shop, clutching her precious jar of money protectively. Both Mac and Gordon seem moments from an actual altercation.

“Mistletoe,” Harriet says, above the shouting.

The shop falls suddenly very, very quiet.

“Mistletoe,” she repeats, pointing over Tony and Jez’s heads.

Tony’s heart almost stops in horror. Somebody has hung mistletoe over their heads, beautifully arranged and carefully located above any natural sightline. Jez looks up at it, back down at Tony, and finally over at Mac, as if requiring instructions on how to proceed.

“Now’s not the time,” Tony mutters. They have a problem to sort out.

“What does that mean?” Diane blusters. “Do you have some kind of problem with kissing Jez?”

“We’re not going to kiss,” Tony says, firmly. Jez nods vigorously.

“Surely that’s against the rules?” Harriet asks, looking impish. “I mean, _I_ had to kiss Robin.”

For a moment, Tony is petrified that the shop will try to debate the issue. Giving Red’s any room to discuss anything, he learned very quickly, meant that the argument would stop only once everyone involved had exhausted the subject, themselves,  and each other, or at the heat-death of the universe. Whichever came last.

“Just kiss,” Mac orders, looking annoyed.

Jez sighs, looking distinctly ill, and shuffles towards him. Tony flinches away.

“Are you some kind of homophobe?” Diane asks.

“I- sorry, what?” Tony asks, indignant. “I’m _bisexual_. I have a _boyfriend_. He’s the one with a new girlfriend every other week!”

“Maybe that’s a beard thing,” Margaret muses. “I mean, Robin, you–” Robin kicks her. Diane looks unconvinced.

“You’d kiss _Gordon_ but not Jez? Are you some kind of beardophobe, then?”

“He does pick on my beard a lot,” Robin offers.

“That’s because it’s awful,” Margaret tells him. “And has obviously turned you into a philanderer.”

Harriet snorts. Margaret is trying to cover a smile with her hand, but it’s not working.

“This isn’t going to happen,” Tony says, desperately. He casts an entreating look at Gordon, who is watching the entire farce with undisguised amusement.

“Jez, kiss him,” Mac demands again.

“Jez, do not.” Tony pleads.

“Do it. To end homophobia,” Diane says in perfect seriousness.

Jez shrugs, then grabs Tony’s shoulders and pulls him in.

There’s a horrible moment when his lips touch Tony’s skin. Even under duress, it seems, Jez cannot face a proper kiss and has mercifully gone for his forehead. Tony silently thanks God. The ordeal is already traumatising enough as it is.

Tony blinks.

“Ok. Now get out of my shop,” he says, furiously. He was never much good at righteous anger; even now, it doesn’t really work, and although they shuffle away there’s a collective smirk on the faces of his staff. Even Gordon is still smiling slightly. Tony thinks he should use violence more often. He aggressively cleans his forehead.

“Christmas is _ruined_ ,” Tony whines, moves to hug Gordon who, as ever, evades the hug.

“I wouldn’t want to make Jez jealous,” he says, with a rare laugh. Well, Tony thinks, pouting, at least  _someone_ is having a good time.


	2. Family

 

In the car on the way to Tony’s dad’s, Gordon begins to panic. Tony can tell it’s panic, from the succession of missed turns and near-collisions; he’s trying to buy time without appearing to be buying time. It makes for some interesting driving, for a definition of ‘interesting’ that involves seeing your life flash before your eyes whilst _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ plays on the radio.

“Gordon,” Tony says, as Gordon swerves wildly around a perfectly stationary parked car. “I’m about to do something you’ll hate.”

Gordon’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“If you start singing this stupid song, Tony–”

“No, it’s not that. You’d like that,” Tony says smugly, waiting for Gordon to pull over before tucking the stray curls back behind Gordon’s ear. “I’m going to talk about feelings.”

Gordon grunts and looks away, but Tony moves his face back to meet his eyes, insistent.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he says reassuringly, “about the party. They know about us.”

“I’m not nervous about the party,” Gordon snaps. Nervously.

“Gordon.”

Gordon can’t look Tony in the eye, choosing instead to mess anxiously with his hair.

“It’ll be fine,” Tony assures him, “It’s not even that big a deal. Dad just wants to meet you, really.”

Gordon exhales, allowing Tony to rub his back a little. When he’s finally ready to talk, he has that strange Gordon contrition that sometimes took hold of him.

“I don’t want to... start anything,” he mutters. Tony smiles.

“It won’t start anything. They aren’t going to be _angry_ at me. I’m, like, the favorite child.”

“I’m serious, Tony.”

“So am I.” Tony turns on his most charming smile. “I promise you, all they’re going to see is a handsome and brilliant Scot. And you.”

Gordon frowns and says nothing. He doesn’t start the car. He doesn’t even make his usual retort about how Tony is _not Scottish_ , so Tony suppresses a sigh and kisses his forehead, tenderness and sentimentality making him a little uncharacteristically chaste.   

“Hey. ‘Tis the season, right?” he asks. Gordon doesn’t answer, seeming a little lost, so Tony waits until he’s ready.

“I won’t necessarily be able,” Gordon says, slowly, “to do this. For you. Take you home and just–”

“That’s ok,” Tony says, kissing his nose this time, “that’s fine.”

“They aren’t–”

“I know, and it’s fine.”

It’s not a lie. He can deal with it. It’s not a problem. Well, it is a problem, but it’s also obviously a sacrifice Gordon has made to avoid ruining a perfectly good relationship with his parents, so it’s a necessary compromise Tony is prepared to make to avoid ruining a perfectly good relationship with Gordon.

When Gordon starts the car up again, there are no near-misses and no detours, only Tony singing _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ as Gordon stares ahead and sulks.  

 

* * *

 

Tony’s dad has met Gordon, but never in the capacity of Tony’s boyfriend, and for a moment he wonders if he’s oversold how fine his father is with the development in the relationship. After a slightly awkward handshake, though, his dad smiles and asks how he’s been and the the world rights itself once more. Being outed had been rough for his dad as well as for him, but Tony’s fairly sure they’ve both recovered.

Gordon’s shoulders are tense, and he shifts a little from foot to foot abruptly with the look of a man lost in a cannibal enclave. Tony’s friends and family mill around, beaming and hugging and booming about how much each other’s kids have _grown._ Tony gets ambushed by the Christmas tree by a gaggle of cousins who greet him with smirks and comments on what an _interesting_ and _modern_ life he leads these days, and despite the frankly ridiculous amount of distance Gordon has put between them, Tony can tell he’s red-faced.          

“Tony!” his dad calls, allowing Tony to evade an aunt clearly on the verge of ruffling his hair. “We’re doing photos, where’s your Christmas jumper?” He gestures with some resignation at his own appropriately garish knitwear; every family member Tony can see is already wearing them, bright greens and reds bobbing and weaving through the guests. Gordon moves a little closer to him and tugs at his collar uncomfortably, clearly feeling more out of place than ever. He looks cute when he’s nervous, though, and there’s something undeniably satisfying about seeing him here, amongst Tony’s family, his presence here unquestioned and undisputably accepted.

“Get it on,” croons his brother’s fiancée, appearing next to him to shamelessly steal his champagne. “You always look good in these bloody jumpers, Tony, and I never know how you manage it.”

“I always look good,” Tony corrects her, wearing a mock-smug smile to disguise his perfectly genuine smugness. He grabs Gordon’s hand, holding tighter as Gordon tries to snatch it away. “Come on, I’ll show you my old room.”

“ _Ooooh_ ,” says a voice in his ear. Tony giggles.

“Hello to you too, Bill,” he says, as his brother busily engages himself in stealing Tony’s champagne from his own fiancée.

“Careful, Gordon,” he continues, slapping Tony on the shoulder and winking at Gordon. “He does this with all the girls.” There’s a pause, almost awkward, before Bill clears his throat. “I mean, all the...” He seems to struggle for an appropriate word. “People?” he attempts, somewhat lamely, and Tony laughs, shaking his head. He pulls Gordon upstairs, away from the chatter and laughter in the kitchen.

Gordon doesn’t advance any further into Tony’s room when they enter it, skulking unhappily by the door, eyes quickly finding the floor as Tony pulls off his shirt.

“Tony,” he says, as Tony forages in the wardrobe for a t-shirt, “when can we go?”

“Not for a while,” Tony replies, still shirtless. He pulls his jumper from the drawer it’d been stowed in last year and takes a moment to admire how truly hideous it is. “Do you like my bedroom?”

The room is _very_ Tony. It’s exactly what anyone would expect it to be; Gordon frowns at the Tonyness of it all, as Tony had expected him to. He likes it immensely, this little monument to his teenage self. The walls are invisible under hundreds of pictures of the Stones, Springsteen and the Libertines. There’s a ridiculously oversized rosary on the bedside table. There’s a guitar and an electric guitar and an amp, and books piled haphazardly on the shelves: law, politics, and endless musician’s biographies. The rest of the shelves hold trophies. Many, many trophies. Pictures of Tony holding trophies adorn the walls, squeezed between the absurd number of posters of Mick Jagger. Gordon is careful not to look at any of them.

“Do you like it?” Tony asks again, wrapping his arms around Gordon’s neck. He’s still not wearing a shirt, to Gordon’s obvious discomfort. “I wish I’d known you when I was fifteen.”

He moves in to kiss Gordon, who pulls back, frowning.

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s romantic! I was meant for you.”

“It’s _illegal_ ,” Gordon responds, pushing him back by the shoulders.

“Details,” Tony says, sighing.  He gives up on the kiss and pulls on the t-shirt and jumper.

“Are you sure you don’t want a snog on my fish sheets?” he asks, patting the bed invitingly. “I’ve had some very nice reviews from some very demanding people.”

Gordon is already out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Tony disappears into the kitchen, leaving Gordon alone with… people. There are so many people. He hates how many people there are. Tony had _promised_ that it would be a small family get-together. Tony, as ever, had clearly been being creative with the truth, because every Blair in the world is here, all of them sporting big guileless blue eyes and mile-wide smiles. For a while, Gordon attempts to become part of the furniture, sitting on the couch with the glass of brandy someone plied him with earlier, but there’s a seemingly endless stream of Blairs throwing him curious looks or brandishing their favourite pictures of Tony, who naturally looks entirely perfect in every one (he always does, a fact Gordon will admit to only when he wishes to _die_ from the crushing weight of Tony’s smugness). He hears himself being talked about, or assumes it must be about him. Very few of the other guests, though, could plausibly be described as ‘Scottish’, ‘unfriendly’, or ‘dark and brooding’.

The English, Gordon remembers, are _awful_. He stands and moves awkwardly through the crowd, hoping to find another brandy.

“Sorry,” an old lady says, taking his arm with an inquisitive smile and not looking very sorry at all. “Who’re you?”

Gordon attempts to look less horrified by the question and the arm-grabbing than he is.

“I’m–” it sticks in his throat a moment– “hm, Tony’s partner,”  he mutters.

“Oh, _Tony_!” she exclaims, undisguised affection flooding her face. Then she pauses, confusion flooding her face. “Partner in what, dear?”

Gordon suppresses a groan and longs for death. Maybe today is the day to admit how good Tony looks in photographs, after all.

“Sex!” someone shouts, pushing through the crowd towards them. To his irritation, he can feel himself turn pale. “He’s Tony’s partner in _sex_ , Margaret.”          

His blood is running cold with horror. This is not happening. God is not so unmerciful. Not even _Tony_ would be this cruel. There’s Tony’s usual brand of insensitivity and then there’s outright sadism, and Gordon isn’t sure he has it in him.

Gordon lifts his eyes. Cherie smiles at him. Or bares her teeth, anyway.

“I’m not wrong, am I, Gordon?” she asks, knowing perfectly well that she isn’t. “You’re still in a relationship with Tony?”

 _Not for much longer_ , Gordon is tempted to scream. At Tony’s girlfriend. Tony’s ex-girlfriend. He is still in a relationship with Tony, who is _his_ , and who has apparently brought an ex to his family Christmas party. Gordon wants to throw something.

To his surprise, Gordon discovers that the brandy-glass in his hand is full. Cherie must have come prepared. As annoying as this is, he drains the glass.

“Cherie,” he says, through gritted teeth, “excuse me. I need to talk to Tony.”

He stalks through the crowd, not really noticing those he brushes aside. He finds Tony in the kitchen, chattering away to Leo.

“Hey, sweetie!” Tony greets him with the usual sunny charm. “I’m trying to persuade Dad to come to Midnight Mass, and...” he trails off, noticing his failure to clear the thunderous expression on Gordon’s face. “Let’s talk outside,” he offers, diplomatically, and Gordon allows himself to be led into the garden.

At an acceptable distance from the house, Tony turns to him with the usual expression of patient adoration he unfailingly assumes in a tight spot. It never fails to soften Gordon slightly, and never fails to enrage Gordon at being softened by something he’s perfectly aware is an act. Presumably there is a net benefit in Tony’s favour to the expression, through, because he continues to assume it, which means–

“Gordon,” Tony says softly, looking concerned. “What’s happened?” He leans forward to kiss him. Gordon pushes him away. Tony sighs.

“Your _ex-girlfriend_ is here,” Gordon growls, and watches Tony processing the information for a moment.

“Oh, Cherie!” Tony exclaims, smiling as comprehension dawns on his face. “I should go and talk to her.”

Boiling water would have stung less. He hates the smile, of course, and the unfeigned delight with which he says her name, but chiefly he hates the jealousy suddenly rising in his throat, making his pulse race and his hands shake as though preparing for a fight.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Tony?” he manages to snarl. He’s surprised to find he’s not screaming; perhaps he’s too angry even for that.

Tony stares at him, analytical and distant, the horrible Gordon-the-puzzle, Gordon-the-problem stare that makes his skin prickle with the awful feeling of being condescended to without Tony needing to say a word.

“Nothing,” he says, polite and detached, as he would to an angry customer. “She stayed friends with my family, that’s all.” He meets Gordon’s eyes, and some feeling enters his voice as he continues, earnestly, “Gordon, I didn’t know she was here.”

It's a virtuoso piece of work. Gordon doesn’t believe him. Or rather, Gordon can't trust himself to believe him, knowing how gullible it renders him that he _wants to_. He wants to believe Tony, believe Tony wouldn’t lie to him, not outright and not about this, but Tony has a habit of pushing people’s buttons just to see how much they’ll take for him. It’s not cruelty, as such. It’s just what Tony does.

“Gordon,” Tony says again. Gordon has spent years analysing and cataloguing every instance of Tony saying his name. This _Gordon_ is about as bluntly honest as Tony ever gets, with an edge of impatience that Gordon finds somehow reassuring. “Gordon, I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t have done this, and I _didn’t know_.”

He feels the anger falling away. If he’s as honest with himself as he’d like to think he is, he knows it wasn’t about Cherie or about Tony or about Tony’s dubious truthfulness. Uneasily, he wonders whether it’s about the party. Watching Tony, comfortably showing Gordon and his relationship with Gordon and _himself_ to his family, when Gordon hides Tony’s places in his life under secrets and codes and euphemism, provokes an entirely different sort of jealousy to the sort that flares up at the sight of Cherie. He’s jealous of Tony’s ability to confuse ‘right’ with whatever makes Tony happy. As far as Gordon is concerned, righteousness is the ability to make yourself unhappy in the name of being good.

Tony is still surveying his face, eyes soft. He realises he hasn’t replied; he suspects Tony has followed him anyway, more or less, from the expression Tony’s wearing.

“Let’s go back inside,” he suggests gently, stuffing his hands in his pockets and moving closer to Gordon. “And can we go to Midnight Mass, by the way?”

“No,” Gordon tells him. He manages to keep his voice gruff, but he can’t quite help smiling. “I put up with your papist deviancy every day and I won’t have it ruining Christmas.”

“Don’t give me ideas,”  Tony warns him, blue eyes sparkling with fondness, or perhaps the cold. He’s so easy to love sometimes, although Gordon resolves never to tell him so. He’s conceited enough already.

Walking into the kitchen, they run straight into Cherie; Gordon considers escaping into the garden, but the look Tony sends his way is so _concerned_ that Gordon immediately resolves not to betray anything. Tony’s smile could light the Blairs’ Christmas tree as he hugs her, and Gordon bites back the jealousy he can feel fretting up again.

“Hello, stranger,” she says to Tony when he lets her go. She glances at Gordon, and beams. “Did I get you in trouble with the missus?”

Tony laughs at the joke as though it were funny. Maybe he thinks it is. It would be typical of Tony’s sense of humour, Gordon thinks.

“Not at all,” Tony says, still looking irritatingly cheerful. “We just love you, don’t we, Gordon?”

Gordon smiles a rictus grin, nods once, and leaves the pair of them chatting away, possibly about satanic rituals or _Catholicism_. He wanders, feeling slightly lost until, with what must be a genetic propensity for intrusion, he is cornered by a tiny Blair. A girl. Tony’s sister.

“You’re Gordon, right?” she asks, tapping away at her phone. “Tony says you’re a genius.”

That makes him shift away, uncomfortable. He knows Tony does this, talks about him like this, babbling away in streams of effusive praise. It should probably make him happy. It makes him nervous. He isn’t a genius, as Tony knows full well, and Gordon still isn’t completely sure how he can just–

“There’s a boy bothering me,” she says, and Gordon raises an eyebrow, concerned and protective despite himself. She’s so _young_. She must be younger than Ed, maybe even younger than the other Ed, so he cranes his neck round to read the screen as she shows him her phone. “He’s talking about, like, politics and he’s wrong, but I can’t word it right.” She reads his expression and correctly concludes she’s losing him. “Well?”  she asks, frustrated, “you’re good at politics, aren’t you?” Gordon doesn’t correct her, but he does lean back over the phone and, squinting, try to make out the tiny little letters. Her argument’s ok, but mostly based on an eloquence that appeals to emotion; he scans the comment thread in vain for any facts or figures.

“Well, some of this is wilful manipulation of the facts, but others are legitimate.” He chews at the inside of his cheek, trying to break it down cleanly. It’s good that she cares, he thinks. “So the point about middle-class girls succeeding and working-class boys falling back educationally is an important one, because–”

“Because Gordon doesn’t believe women can be working-class,” Cherie interrupts him, and he looks up, hoping Tony will be with her. He isn’t.

“I never said–”

“No, you only _implied–_ ”

“You’re–” he stops, remembering his earlier decision, and realising he’s raising his voice. “I’m leaving.”

“That’s fortunate,” she says, sounding bored. “Tony asked me to tell you he’s ready to go.”  Some of the tension drains from him at that, and he manages a halfway civil goodbye to Cherie as he goes into the kitchen. Tony, when he finds him, is beaming and clutching an envelope.

“Dad bought me a trip to Italy!” he says, hugging his father. “How great is that?”

Gordon nods, still awkward in front of Leo.

“Of course,” Tony says, with a wink, “it means you’ll be minding the shop, but I think you’ll like that.”  He turns back to his father again, still glowing. “He’s brilliant. He’s brilliant running the shop.”

 _Then why didn’t you let me have it?_ Gordon thinks sourly. He wonders, briefly, if it’s always going to come down to this, everything coming back to that one moment in their shared history. He becomes distracted, thinking about it, and then Tony kisses his hair and his face feels hot with embarrassment. He doesn’t say anything, though, silently watching Tony say his goodbyes as they move from the kitchen and into the hallway.

“Gordon,” Tony’s dad says, at the door, “take care of our boy.”

He tries hard to smile. It makes sense to think of Tony as the product of this strange world, the natural result of an environment in which everyone was considered precious and perfect just for existing. It seems extravagant to him. There ought to be some effort to it. Cherie comes into the hall, and Leo takes her arm, pulling her into a hug. Gordon moves Tony aside to puts his hand on the doorknob, suddenly anxious to go, when he hears a noise too awful to contemplate.

“Mistletoe,” Leo says, chuckling. Perhaps if he ignores it, it’ll go awa–

“ _Oh_ ,” Tony says. Even with his back to him, Gordon can hear the wicked smile in his voice. “Oh _no,_ how dreadful,” Tony adds, jubilant.

Gordon glances upwards. There is indeed a small bunch of mistletoe hanging over the door. Over him. And Cherie. She looks very nearly as horrified, and Gordon is surprised to feel a moment’s sympathy for her. He surveys the hallway; an expectant hush has descended, save for the giggles of some of the more inebriated Blairs.

“Oh no,” Tony says again, his eyes twinkling. “How terribly awkward. And now you have to kiss.”

“We are _not_ going to kiss,” Gordon says, firmly. Cherie nods, seemingly involuntarily.

“Oh, but Gordon,” Tony says, soft and affectionate, “it’s _mistletoe_. And _I_ had to kiss people I didn’t want to, after all.”

 _That’s different_ , Gordon thinks.

“Tony.”

The warning in his voice does nothing to dim Tony’s rapturous expression. He’s probably been dreaming of this for years. In fact, Gordon is half-convinced that Tony must have planned this entire occasion with the sole aim of having Gordon and Cherie kiss whilst both _screamingly_ furious with him. Next to him, Cherie suddenly unfolds her arms.

“We’ll do it,” she says decisively, wearing a smug little smile that makes Gordon nervous. “But Tony has to face the other way.”

There’s laughter from the rest of their audience; even Leo snorts in approval. Tony’s smile falters, which cheers Gordon up no end.

“You can’t set terms for this, Cherie,” Tony protests.

“They’re not terms, it’s a timeframe. We’ll kiss the moment you turn your back.”

“This isn’t a negotiation!”

“It’s not a performance to entertain you, either,” Gordon grunts. Tony’s expression states quite clearly that that’s _exactly_ what he believes it ought to be. Cherie raises an eyebrow at Bill, who takes Tony’s shoulders and turns him firmly around, much to Tony’s obvious disappointment.

“You’re giving in to _coercion_!” he whines, but his brother holds his shoulders fast, grinning. Next to him, Cherie sighs with open disdain, grabbing Gordon by the collar of his shirt and kissing his lips, quick and horrible. Tony’s sister pauses another furious online debate to wolf-whistle loudly– Tony, still firmly in Bill’s grip, makes a slight unhappy noise– and there’s some scattered applause.

“You know that you’re probably the only person he likes as much as he loves himself, don’t you?” Cherie whispers, trying without much success to fix the collar she’d messed up.

“Yes,” he mumbles back, badly wanting wipe his lips.

“How was it?” Tony asks, turning around. “Cherie, give up on the collar. Not even Peter can keep it neat. Did someone take pictures?”

“We’ll never tell,” his sister tells him, mischievously.

“You,” he tells her, ruffling her hair briefly, “are getting _nothing_ from me next Christmas.”

Bill laughs.

“It was a bit weird,” he admits, “I’ve always thought they looked a bit like brother and sister...”

Gordon takes unsurprisingly little satisfaction in seeing his own scowl reflected in Cherie’s expression.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Tony asks him when they finally escape onto the drive, a hand snaking around Gordon’s waist. “Is a reconstruction of events…?”

Gordon shakes him off and stalks off towards the car, unamused.

 


	3. Ed's

 

In the car, Tony becomes fidgety and his smile grows forced. He fiddles with the glove compartment, taps at the car window, and twitches in his seat until Gordon can ignore him no longer.

“What’s the matter?” he asks brusquely, trying to focus on the road.

“Nothing.” There’s a beat, and Gordon suddenly realises what’s coming next. “Gordon, it’s late. Can’t we skip Ed’s and go straight to Peter’s?”

Of course. Of course. Of _fucking_ course.

“You made me go to your dad’s,” he points out, slowly, hands tensing on the wheel. Tony looks confused.

“That was important.”

“Because you wanted to go.” Gordon grumbles.

“No, because it was my family.” Tony corrects him. “Ed is just your friend.”

“My friends,” Gordon inhales, annoyed at having to spell this out for him, “are important. To me.”

“Peter is your friend, too,” Tony insists, flicking anxiously at the sleeves of his jumper, and Gordon’s jaw clenches, achingly angry.

“Don’t go then,” he snaps, vicious. “Get out of the fucking car and I’ll go alone.”

“Don’t,” Tony pleads, in the pained, put-upon voice that always infuriates him, “don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Gordon asks. He’s vaguely aware that he’s overreacting and that this is not an argument they need to have, but it was Tony’s fault and he’s too angry to back down now.

“It’s _Christmas_ , Gordon,” Tony says, moving from ‘martyr’ to his fractionally more aggravating ‘infinitely patient long-suffering boyfriend’ voice. “Can we just… not?”

“I don't know what you mean, but if you don’t want to go–”

“I’ll go!” Tony insists. This, of course, Gordon thinks with a stab of anger, is what the whole ridiculous squabble had been about. Tony, in Tony’s mind, is now a good and selfless little angel who’ll do anything for his temperamental and selfish and ungrateful boyfriend. Unfortunately for Tony, Gordon’s mind works rather differently.

“Don’t sound so bloody _persecuted_. You insisted on coming with me.”

“I said I would go.”

“You said you would go for the same reason that you don’t want _me_ to go,” Gordon snaps. “Because you want to control me.” The lights turn red, and Gordon stamps on the brake so hard Tony’s head hits the headrest.

“That’s not it!” Tony says, indignant. He stops, and purses his lips. “I just– they are _mean_.”

It takes Gordon by surprise. He wants to laugh at how _insecure_ Tony sounds. He forgets that this, too, is Tony; the pretty boy with the big smile who used to go to such lengths for signs of Gordon’s approval is always there, under the power plays and narcissism. For the second time that night, his anger crumbles away. He actually chuckles.

“You,” Gordon says, as gently as he can, “are also mean, Tony.”

“ _I_ ,” Tony proclaims, “am actually a super nice person, if you must know.” Gordon scoffs, but it ends up as a laugh, and Tony doubles down.

“Considered the best of the best, actually,” he says, one hand on Gordon’s thigh. “Delightful, a must-have for all social occasions, the reviews were.”

“I have word for those reviewers.”

“You had a _lot_ of words last night.” His hand moves upward. Gordon bites his tongue and tries not to turn red.

“Tony,” he says, without any conviction whatsoever. “I’m driving.”

“Stop driving,” Tony suggests, continuing his groping undeterred.

“Tony.” He sounds very slightly out of breath. “You’re going to cause an accident.”

“Pull over,” Tony says, half command, half plea. It gives Gordon goosebumps. “Come on, Gordon. We can go home, I’ll wear nothing but tinsel, and you can–”

Tony does this sometimes– the sex thing– because he knows how well it works. Gordon is vulnerable to it, because it throws him off, quiets the suspicious, analytical work of his brain necessary for dealing with Tony and Tony’s machinations. Wanting Tony has a tendency to leave him bewitched, bothered and bewildered, and only afterwards does he ever realise Tony had an aim and the entire thing has been a means to an end.

“We’re going to Ed’s, Tony,” Gordon says, moving Tony’s hand from his jeans. Tony makes a small noise of frustration, and pouts.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. He stares out of the car window for a moment. “Gordon?”

“Tony?”

“Do you like me better than them?” Gordon rolls his eyes. Tony drums his fingers, unsatisfied. “Well?” he insists. “Do you?

“I’m dating you, aren’t I?” Gordon replies, crabby again. It’s a non-answer, of course, and about the most honest he can give. He’s with Tony, frets constantly about losing Tony, but none of his friends would have stabbed him in the back– he doesn’t think he’s being dramatic; Ed and Charlie say the same– over the shop. His life and Tony’s tangle constantly more closely together, and separation is inconceivable to Gordon now, and he wishes he thought Tony saw matters similarly, but he can’t really trust Tony anymore, which is–-

Next to him, Tony pulls off his jumper, the t-shirt coming off with it, and Gordon’s thoughts derail.

“What are you doing?” he asks in suspicion, trying to keep his eyes on the road as Tony pulls the shirt from the jumper.

“Getting changed,” Tony says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not giving them _real_ reasons to hate me, God knows they’ve invented enough.” He, too, becomes distracted admiring his torso, and shoots Gordon a quick cocky grin. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me in tinsel? I have some brilliant ideas...”

Gordon doesn’t reply, too busy praying that he doesn’t spend the rest of his life turning red at the sight of tinsel.

 

* * *

 

Ed hates him because Ed thinks Gordon is the true-born heir to Red’s, and Charlie hates him because Charlie is a screaming homophobe, but if Yvette hates him then she hides it well. Unfortunately, she’s dating Ed, and Tony doesn’t really fancy getting the blame for a break-up, so he’ll probably just say hi and keep his distance. This party may well be the worst thing that will ever to happen to him. The things he does for Gordon, really.

It starts at the door; Charlie opens it and pulls Gordon into a hug, not letting go of his arm as they chatter away in excitement over something extremely boring. Tony shivers on the doorstep, waiting to be let in out of the cold, or for any kind of acknowledgment of his existence. No such acknowledgement arrives, of course, as Charlie busies himself pretending not to notice or care that his precious Gordon has a beautiful boyfriend fucking him up the arse every week. Some weeks. It’s happened more than once now, is what Tony means, and Charlie doesn’t know any of that, so the point stands. Tony decides he’s had enough, and pushes past Charlie into Ed’s house; Gordon frowns at him, as though _he_ was in the wrong.

“Tony,” Charlie says, looking sour.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie!” Tony says, smiling with carefully-crafted friendliness. “Sorry to bump into you, I was freezing out there.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Charlie says, clearly wanting that. Gordon comes in, nose pink from the cold and smiling. Actually smiling.

“Where’s Ed?” he asks. Tony hates how happy he gets around these people. It’s never the same with him. “I wanted to tell him…”

“I’ll call him,” Charlie offers, bumping into Tony as he goes off to find the hellchild in question. Tony looks at Gordon with his most exaggerated _did you see that_ expression. Gordon rolls his eyes. _It was an accident, stop making a fuss out of nothing_. Tony means to say _that’s hilarious coming from you_ but realises how odd it’d sound to continue the conversation out loud, and instead shoves his hands in his pockets and puts on a smile going in to greet the others in the living room.

Most of them put some effort into concealing their horror at his presence, but nobody is particularly happy to see him, though, and even the other Ed doesn’t talk much, so Tony goes to the bathroom and finds Peter’s name in his contacts.

“Hello, darling,” Peter says loudly, over music playing in the background. The music is great, and Tony wishes, miserably, that he was there. “Are the boys roughing you up?”

“You make it sound fun,” Tony jokes, and Peter laughs.

“How is it, then?” he asks, cheerfully.

“They’re all awful.”

“To be expected.”

“I just– they’re fucking _awful_ ,” he whines.

“Aren’t they just?”

“Just– Christ.” Tony finds himself unexpectedly at a loss for words. “Charlie is the worst of them all, the homophobic fuck.” He’s surprised when Peter laughs again.

“Tony, I don’t think that’s what’s behind it.” Tony frowns.

“Well, what do you think it is?” Tony asks, petulant. Peter hums, a little sadly.

“You’ll figure it out. One day. Probably.” He wants to hear more– Peter has a terrible habit of implying he knows gossip he’s not telling delivering– but he recognises Gordon’s footsteps outside.

“Listen,” he tells Peter with a whisper, “I have to go.”

“Have fun,” Peter says, giggling. He sounds more or less the same as normal, but Tony can tell he’s drunk. He wishes he was drunk. He ends the call and opens the door; Gordon is smiling and making his way through a mince pie. He’s wearing a Santa hat, and Tony feels rather hurt. Gordon would never let _Tony_ put a Santa hat on him.

“Hey, Tony,” says Ed, who Tony had last seen dancing with Yvette. He’s wearing a Santa costume, and no hat. “Happy holidays. Maybe someone will give you a decent taste in music for Christmas!”

Tony forces a grin, and follows them downstairs.

 

* * *

 

Gordon has eaten half the stollen, and is showing no signs of stopping. Ed watches him, glowing with joy as Gordon chomps mechanically through his sixth mince pie, and Tony sits with them, poking half-heartedly at Christmas cake, pretending to listen to Ed’s explanation of how he got the pastry so perfectly light. Eventually, he thinks he might scream and leaves for the bathroom again; he’s had four glasses of something strong, which he thinks would give him an excuse if anybody _cared_.

He calls Peter again, but this time there’s no answer, so he sits on the toilet playing Tetris instead in an attempt  to waste some time. Downstairs, someone puts _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ on, the Nat King Cole version, and he can actually hear Gordon and Gordon’s smile, singing along to it.

He never sings for _Tony_ , the handsome bastard.

“Where’s Blair?” he hears someone whisper next to the door.

“Who cares?” the unmistakable, loathsome voice of Charlie Whelan replies. “Aren’t you glad to have the cretinous bimbo away from him?”

Tony isn’t angry. He seems to have skipped anger and arrived instead at vengeful. Tony closes the Tetris app and texts Gordon.

_Meet me in the bathroom,_ he orders. His phone pings in reply almost immediately.

_Tony._

_Gordon. I really need you._

_Tony._

_:)_

He knows he has Gordon’s attention now. Curiosity and paranoia tug at the man like little else, and Tony knows how to pull the strings. He’s right; it’s maybe thirty seconds before Gordon knocks on the door, and Tony pulls him into the bathroom, grabbing him by the collar.

“What are you doing?” Gordon demands as Tony shoves him against the wall, but the next moment Tony is kissing him, slow and deep, and he appears either to forget the question or to consider it satisfactorily answered.

“Hey,” Tony whispers, panting slightly and kissing him again. Gordon’s hands find his hips, and he’s pulled in closer.

“You taste of gin,” Gordon says, licking his lips. He probably means to sound reproachful; he just sounds dazed.

“You taste of mince pies,” Tony laughs. He kisses Gordon’s neck, nibbling slightly. Gordon wants him, obviously, and Tony knows he can get him to do something about it; he kisses Gordon again, and is rewarded with a quiet, half-embarrassed moan. Tony, exulting, steps back, dropping gracefully and only a little drunkenly to his knees.

“Tony,” Gordon says, sounding a little less dazed; Tony realises he’s got too far ahead of himself. “Get up. We’re not doing this.”

“It’s Christmas,” Tony says, looking up at him mischievously. “Let me give you a present?” He lifts Gordon’s shirt and kisses his stomach; Gordon gasps and bucks slightly, and Tony’s hands go to his belt.

“Tony,” Gordon repeats, moving Tony’s hands away. “What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.” Tony says, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to free his hands. Gordon is bright red.

“We’re not doing it here.” Tony raises his eyebrows.

“Why not?”

“You know why not,” Gordon barks, holding his hands painfully tight.

“You didn’t mind it at the restaurant the other week,” Tony reminds him, wriggling one hand loose. Gordon makes a face that betrays exactly how vividly he remembers the restaurant, and Tony resumes his efforts to undo Gordon’s belt.

“That wasn’t Christmas,” Gordon protests, voice soft, clearly about to give in, “and this–”

He’s interrupted by the door opening.

Tony smiles, incandescent with joy as he looks up into Charlie’s horrified face. Gordon backs into the wall, clearly wishing he could simply fade away.

“Sorry, Charlie!” Tony sings, needlessly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought I’d locked the door, but we were just about to go anyway.” He springs up gracefully from his knees and waltzes calmly past Charlie, grabbing Gordon’s hand. Gordon seems to have lost the capacity for words, belt still half-undone and shirt distinctly crumpled; Tony feels distinctly smug at his more-than-usually rumpled state as Tony tugs him into the living room.

“Merry Christmas, everybody!” he shouts, for all the world as though he were happy to see them. “Gordon and I are just about to go, but it’s always a pleasure to see you all.” A few of them manage to stop staring long enough to mumble goodbyes. Tony turns to Charlie, who’s followed them into the living room and is standing, scarlet with fury, under the mistletoe.

“And Charlie,” Tony adds, sweeping the hair from his eyes with the elegance of a supermodel, “I’d hate to think I didn’t give you a proper goodbye,” Tony doesn’t add _you homophobic asshole_ , but he’s quite sure his expression implies it. He moves in, takes Charlie’s face in his hands, and kisses him on the lips until the man recovers enough from shock to shove him away.

“You fuck!” Charlie screams in disgust, wiping his mouth. “You simpering _fucker_!”

Around them, people’s expressions have changed from confusion and alarm to flat-out horror; Tony laughs again, as though he’s having a tremendous time. In fairness, he really is; Gordon’s eyes are wide with shock, but he’s still too ashamed to say anything. Tony suspects he’d have stormed out already, were it not for his refuge in audacity.

“Merry Christmas!” he calls again at the door.

“You know,” he hears the other Ed ponder as he leaves, voice distant and nasal. “You can say a lot about Tony, but he does know how to make an exit.”

 

 


	4. Peter's

 

The journey to Peter’s is as much an oncoming storm as it is a game of Kriegspiel, each of them waiting for the other to falter as they each sit calculating opening remarks and retaliations and the best position to counter the counter-argument. It’s tense, and the tension grows until neither of them feels particularly comfortable even breathing.

Tony is the first to break; the image of Charlie’s face, murderous and stunned after the kiss, comes back to him, and he laughs out loud. For a moment he thinks Gordon hasn’t noticed, but the car swerves suddenly and Tony braces himself for an argument.

“Is this funny to you, Tony?” Gordon asks, eyes narrowed. “Is this is all a fucking joke?”

“Yes,” Tony replies, sharply, “it is actually quite funny to me, reminding your homophobic friend that you’re dating a _man_. Sorry if I don’t cry a river for how horribly traumatised he must be.”

Tony’s neck is thrown back suddenly; the car stops dead in the road. Gordon’s face is contorted in anger.

“What the _hell_ is your problem, Gordon?” he yells, rubbing the back of his neck. He can’t out-shout Gordon, though.

“Don’t fucking say that about Charlie. Don’t say a fucking _word_ about my fucking friends!” he growls, and it’s the defensiveness, as ever, that gets to Tony.

“Oh, fuck off, Gordon,” he says, tiredly. He’s no patience left now, really. “I'm sorry Charlie can’t deal with the fact that you’re a poof or whatever he calls it, but _he_ was the one who outed _me_ , so I’d say it’s his place to handle the consequences for a bit."

Gordon’s jaw is set, face red, veins popping. For a moment, Tony wonders absently whether Gordon is finally going to punch him, but when Gordon moves, his fist hits the car window, which shakes under the force of the punch. Alarm flares momentarily in Tony’s chest– it must have _hurt_ him _–_ but then Gordon speaks, and his voice is raw with anger.

“You do this on purpose,” he says, voice raspy. “You do it to _humiliate_ me.” He looks at Tony, eyes burning. “You do this, and now I want to kill fucking _Charlie_. I have friends, and they’re _mine_ and nothing to do with you, and you can’t handle that and you have to ruin it with... that.” Gordon looks genuinely repulsed, and an shiver runs up Tony’s spine, unbidden.

"Don’t be such an arsehole, Gordon,” Tony snaps back. “It’s not always about you. It’s not always about your ego and your hang-ups and keeping you happy–”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you arsehole! You’re the one who kissed– you’re the arsehole!”

“Fuck off. You are.”

“No, _you_!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re–”

Behind them, a car honks, and they both jump guiltily. They stare at one another a moment, breathless, impossibly frustrated, and– if Tony is right, as he often is– more turned on than either of them really ought to be. Gordon exhales, jaw still set, and drives on. Tony wriggles in his seat.

Peter’s is going to be all-out war.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter deserves a break.

This isn’t subjective but a simple statement of fact. The last three years have been crammed with _delightful_ events–

Being outed

Being dumped

Being fired

Being unable to pay the bills without taking out a loan

Being informed that the loan in question came with interest rates so high he might as well have sold a kidney

Being in Gordon’s bad books (always fantastic; Gordon has an amazing ability to interpret your words and actions against you until you’re left somehow really _believing_ you’re a creeping little traitor) 

– but this Christmas, he’s fine. Better, in fact; he’s happy, or close to it, anyway. He’s careful about saying that out loud, even in private, afraid that to articulate it might somehow cause offense or, somehow, end it. Happiness, he knows, is fragile; he’s shattered the happiness of enough people to know _that_.

But it’s still true. Tonight, Peter Mandelson– only very very slightly drunk– is nonetheless very happy indeed. Moreover, with the exception of Alastair Campbell’s surprising susceptibility to Philip’s requests for Gregorian chants and medieval carols, this year’s Christmas party has proceeded without a hitch. 

 _But,_ says a nagging voice in the back of his head, _they’ve not arrived yet._

Peter tries to ignore it. Yes, Tony and Gordon were still yet to arrive, and yes, they were coming straight from Ed’s, and yes, Tony and Gordon were inevitably ridiculously Tony-and-Gordon about everything, everywhere, all the time. Still, this didn’t _necessarily_ mean the night would end in disaster for everyone.

Not necessarily. He suddenly feels overwhelmingly in need of a drink.

“Hey, Peter,” Sue greets him, topping up her own glass, “have you seen?” She nods at the window, and Peter blinks, but when she pulls him over to see for himself, he finds himself smiling. There’s something undeniably quite _fitting_ about snow, this year of all years.

“Goodness me,” he remarks, voice dripping with a sarcasm he doesn’t quite feel. “Very pretty.”

“And they talk about climate ch– oh, look,” she adds, her smile freezing. “Speaking of the weather. It’s hurricane... Tordon.”

Peter looks out into the street below in time to catch Tony leaving the car, face contorted in a parody of cheerfulness, squealing with deliberately extravagant hand gestures at someone he doubtless doesn’t really know. Sue has noticed, too; her whole body tenses, in the way Gordon’s friends do tend to tense before a fight. Peter shrugs at her with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“He’s just excited.”

Sue raises an eyebrow and nods back at the window. Gordon is getting out of the car, and the look on his face leaves Peter trying concertedly not to panic.

“Sue,” he says, soothingly, “It’ll be fine. We’ve seen much worse.” 

In the street, Gordon punches the car door several times.

“Are you sure?” she asks, catching his answering expression in the second before he can assume a mask of bravado and exasperation. She pats his back in mock-sympathy. “Well, maybe they’ll make up in the lift, and fuck on your bed. And in your bathroom. And in the–”

“Very consoling, thank-you Sue,” Peter replies drily.

“I’m a realist, Peter,” she says with an innocent expression. “It’s no use pretending that the last four months haven’t really been our own private performance of _You Know I’m No Good.”_

“What’s happening?” Alastair asks, drinking Coca-Cola from one of Peter’s fanciest whisky tumblers.

“Nothing, dear. Shoo,” Peter replies; he’s far too fond of Alastair to be kind to the man.

“Hurricane Tordon,” says Sue, evidently pleased with her new nickname. Peter rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells her, “just say their names."

Peter is very fond of Sue, too.

“Oh, the happy couple?” Alastair says, pulling a face. “Why does Tony put up with it, Peter? I mean, he’s a handsome guy, if you like that type of thing, isn’t he? Surely he can do better?”

Alastair fools nobody; Peter rolls his eyes. Sue is laughing.

“Are you going to volunteer, Alastair?” she asks, and Alastair rounds on her, mouth open to reply, when the door opens.

Tony and Gordon come in. Tony strides in first, smiling as though troubles were things that happened to other people; Gordon follows him into the room looking fit to throw something. Peter watches Tony ruffling Philip’s hair. _Something's happened_ , says the look Philip throws his way from across the room; Peter sends him a grimace back that means _I know, dear_ , and Philip smiles at him, small and private.

 When he’s done torturing Philip, Tony alights on Peter.

“Merry Christmas, Peter!” Tony says loudly, pulling Peter into a determinedly close hug. Peter winces internally; over his shoulder, Gordon has assumed the approximate appearance of a rumbling volcano. “It’s always so nice to see you.”

“Thank you, Tony,” he says, as distantly as he can really manage. He smiles at Gordon. _Surely you can see this isn’t my fault_ , he thinks pleadingly. _Just talk to him, it’s really not that hard_. “And how are you, Gordon?”

“Fine,” Gordon says, murderously. Tony tsks and huffs condescendingly.

“Ignore him, Peter,” he says, shaking his head condescendingly. “He’s just _upset_ that people know he’s _fucking a boy._ ” He’s smiling wildly, and somehow still looks about to cry; Peter is vaguely curious about the story behind this particular row, though he knows it’s probably inconsequential. They’ll always find a reason to fight; it’s the fighting itself that matters.

Today, though, Tony seems determined to be reckless where he’d usually tiptoe.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about this in public,” Gordon hisses.

“It’s just Peter,” Tony says, casually. “You don’t have to be a coward in front of _Peter_ , Gordon.”

“Don’t call me a fucking coward!” Gordon shouts, almost above the music. Some people turn to look. Peter puts a warning hand on Tony’s arm. Tony, as ever, ignores him completely, staring at Gordon.

“Right, so kiss me,” he says. Gordon scowls and turns away.

“Fuck off.”

Peter has a headache. How’s he ended up with a headache in just ten minutes? He’d been _happy_ moments ago.

“Pucker up or shut up, Gordon!”

For a single, horrifying moment, Peter thinks there’s a chance they’ll actually start kissing in the middle of his party, the only possible way this mess could get worse, but someone giggles and the moment is gone. Gordon casts a withering look over all of them, turns, and disappears into the hallway.

Peter watches Tony watching him go.

When he turns back to them, his smile has turned from wildly charming to openly manic; it shifts to the borderline sociopathic before he opens his mouth to speak.

“So!” he proclaims, cheery and hollow. “Who’s dancing with me? Philip? Alastair? Sue?”

Alastair shrugs.

“Sure,” he says. They move to the center of the living room, where a couple of people were moving around to _You Keep Me Hangin On_.

“There’s going to be trouble,” Philip tells him solemnly. His glasses are a little askew, and Peter straightens them, lost in thought.

“Trouble?” he asks. “Around _Tony and Gordon_?” Philip laughs quietly, and Peter sighs. “I’ll fix it.”

“You don't have to.”

“It’s not going to fix itself,” he says, and shrugs. “What am I for, if not solving their problems?”

“Marketing campaigns, musical talent, creative genius and strategic brilliance,” Philip replies promptly, then pauses, thinking. “Warmth,” he adds, far more quietly. 

“Alright,” Peter says, smiling. The generosity of Philip’s affection still surprises him a little, sometimes. It's odd to be so _admired_. “I am still going to fix it, though, you know.”

 

* * *

 

He finds Gordon in the little bedroom Philip has turned into an office, pretending to read one of his books. Peter knows he’s pretending. The office is badly lit, and Gordon’s bad eye means he struggles to read small typefaces. And maybe he doesn’t have to; Gordon surely has read _The Jazz Scene_ a hundred times over. Holding it now can only be some sort of ritual, a devotional habit or a relic of his upbringing.

“Gordon,” Peter calls. Gordon looks up.

“I don’t want to talk,” he says flatly, hard-eyed, and goes back to pretending to read. 

“Oh no, that’s fine,” Peter lies airily, sitting down next to him. “Tony told me everything.”

It’s almost too easy, really. Gordon’s frown deepens further.

“Right, he’s told you how much he _suffers_ and what a monster I am for being angry at him after he...” Gordon seems almost lost for a moment. “He was the one who _kissed_ Charlie.” Peter blinks at the unexpected, unpleasant image, and tries to regain composure.

“Gordon,” he says, voice as soothing as he can manage. “You let him do this to you.” Gordon doesn’t look at Peter, arms folded tight around himself.

“He just does it to get to me,” he says at last, almost quietly. Peter sighs inwardly. Nobody else understands these two lunatics like he does; nobody else is anything like as involved.

 “You know why he does this to you?”

“Yes,” Gordon replies immediately. “It’s because he wants to control me. He wants me to be some kind of…” he gesticulates hopelessly. “Consort.”

 _True,_ Peter thinks, _but not helpful._

“He gets to you because you like him,” Peter explains, and Gordon immediately begins to protest. “Sh. And don’t look at me like that. You are _dating_ the boy. You like him. You’ve always liked him.”

“That doesn’t mean–” 

“Remember when you were so worried I’d tell him about us?” Peter interrupts, because he knows it’ll embarrass Gordon, who treats their one night together as some sort of dark secret. “You’ve always liked him,” Peter smiles. Gordon almost smiles back, an old reflex. “He makes you happy, Gordon. Be happy.”

They sit in silence for some time together, staring into space. Gordon seems morose, rather than angry; Gordon doesn’t really seem to understand how to be angry in a way that doesn’t burn itself out after a little time. That’s why Gordon needs Peter. Peter knows all his moods, and no longer takes a single one of them seriously, but he knows how to smoothe over the irritants and inconsistencies that provoke his ridiculous little fits of rage. Even when Gordon decides to fight it–

His thoughts are interrupted as the door opens and Tony bounds into the cramped little room, Philip hovering apologetically in the doorway.

“Well!” Tony says brightly. “My best friend, and my partner. Alone. Together. In the dark. Under mistletoe! Lucky thing we aren’t jealous, hm, Philip?” His voice rises with every word until he’s oddly squeaky. Peter loves Tony– Tony is charming and easy to love– but very little seems to destabilise Tony like the possibility of actuallylosing Gordon.

“So,” Tony says, “are you going to kiss? You have to, and I’m ok with that, aren’t you, Philip?”

“Well, I–” Philip starts. Tony doesn’t seem to notice. When Tony and Gordon fight, Peter muses, they never really do notice anybody else very much.

“There you go!” Tony says, not letting him finish. “You’ll break Philip's heart, but he’ll probably get over it. One day. Or maybe not, who knows, perhaps he’ll die first. Kiss.” Peter exchanges a look with Philip, who looks genuinely alarmed now, still not daring to enter the room. Peter feels uncomfortably out of control of the situation. Tony and Gordon have a gravity of their own, and everything else gets dragged into it. Including their own self-control, it would seem. 

“So, Gordon, this would be a good time not to be a coward,” Tony continues, chattily. He’s provoking Gordon, of course, which is flat-out ridiculous; Peter knows that Tony would rather be called ugly than have to watch Gordon kiss Peter. 

Tony does _not_ like to be called ugly.

“Don't call me a coward,” Gordon warns him. Tony’s smile is huge.

“Coward.”

Gordon grabs a fistful of Peter's hair, and it feels less like a kiss and more like an act of spite, but it’s not the worst kiss he’s ever had. It’s not even the worst kiss he’s ever had with Gordon, and they are, after all, sat under the mistletoe. When Gordon releases him, though, Tony looks halfway to a heart attack, and Peter wonders if he could be charged for culpable homicide if this actually kills Tony.

“Well, there you have it, Philip,” Tony says brightly, not appearing to notice that Philip is no longer standing in the doorway. “The man will kiss your boyfriend, but not me.” Philip must’ve escaped, Peter thinks. He’s always upset by Tony and Gordon’s fights. Then he notices Tony’s hand on his shoulder. “Does the mistletoe mean that I get a kiss as well?” Tony asks. 

By his side, Gordon’s hands are fists, knuckles white.

“No,” Peter says, pushing Tony’s hand away. His head hurts. “It’s Christmas,” he says. “I want to have a good time. Can you both _get a grip_?” It’s a little shriller than he’d have liked, but the last time he asked for this he’d slammed a door in Tony’s face, so he counts this as an improvement.

Tony and Gordon look unimpressed.

“Peter, it’s hardly _my_ fault that he–” Tony begins, sounding wounded and wronged. Gordon reaches into his pocket and throws the car keys at Tony with sudden violence.

Tony catches them with ease, because Tony does everything with ease.

“I’ll walk home,” he snarls.

“It’s _snowing_ ,” Tony points out, high-pitched.

“Fuck you, Tony,” Gordon spits, and storms from the room. Peter hears him pause on the stairs.

“Merry Christmas, Philip.” He sounds almost embarrassed.

“Merry Christmas, Gordon.”

Peter notices he hasn’t been wished a Merry Christmas, but that’s hardly new. As far as Gordon is concerned, Peter is eternally On Tony’s Side now.

“Well,” Tony says, shrugging. “That’s Gordon for you.” Peter nods slowly, not quite sure what to say, and Tony wanders off downstairs, trying to pretend he’s not bothered. Peter goes to join him, head still aching, but is stopped halfway down the staircase by Philip’s arm around his waist.

“What?” Peter asks, amused, as Philip turns him so they face one another. 

“You are brilliant, Peter Mandelson,” he says, quiet and serious, and Peter rolls his eyes with a fond smile. It’s a small moment, but Peter is sentimental enough to enjoy small moments. Besides, his headache seems a little less vicious now. He closes his eyes and smiles. Somewhere, Alastair is playing _The Book Of Love_ , presumably hoping to kick off a slow dance and catch Tony whilst he's still abandoned.

Peter is happy.

It’s the best thing to be at Christmas.  

 

 


	5. Home

 

It had taken hours to reach his flat, marching through the sleet and snow, only to remember that his keys had been amongst the ones he’d thrown at Tony. It’s too cold to be angry, though, so he’s just miserable; about the snow, about the distance from his family, about the fight. He’s miserable, and so tired his bones ache– unless that’s the cold– and he wants more than anything to lie down and sleep.

And now he’s in the lift up to Tony’s flat. He can hear Tony’s voice from the hallway, as he tries to still the shivers and stop his teeth chattering.

“Gordon, hey, it’s me. Listen, I know you’re angry– that’s fine– but it’s snowing and you don’t have your keys or a car and you left your wallet at home and I– well, anyway, please call me.”

His phone died halfway home, and lies silent in his pocket, but soon Tony’s voice is audible in the hallway again, a little more worried.

“Hey, Gordon, I know you’re mad but I–”

He stops speaking when Gordon rings the doorbell; Gordon can hear him run for the door.

“Christ,” Tony whispers, staring at him. He’s still clutching his phone, for some reason. “Christ’s sake, come in.” He pulls Gordon inside and doesn’t attempt any kind of conversation, for which Gordon is grateful. Tony pulls off Gordon’s jacket and begins undoing his shirt, and Gordon has to hold his hands to stop him.

“Ow, Gordon, your hands are like _ice_ –”

“Door’s still open,” Gordon mumbles, feeling faintly pathetic. He expects mockery, but Tony just nods and closes the door.

“Your hands are freezing,” he says, returning to his unusually efficient undressing of Gordon. “Gordon, how long were you outside?”

“Forgot the key was with you,” Gordon admits, lips still numb from the cold. Tony busies himself removing Gordon’s trousers, frowning, before going into the bathroom. Gordon looks at his clothes, strewn over Tony’s carpet, and wonders painfully whether he should try to tidy them..

“Leave that,” Tony orders. “Come here.” Gordon moves into the tiny bathroom, as Tony finishes running the bath. He takes Gordon’s face in his hands, eyes full of worry and of the thing they don’t talk about. It’s hard to ignore it just at the moment, though, filling the room and leaving its taste on Gordon’s lips as Tony kisses him.

“Bath,” he commands, already halfway out of the door. Tony’s sudden respect for privacy is an unsettlingly unexpected luxury, but Gordon’s grateful for it. He finishes getting undressed and gets into the bathtub, and stays there until he can feel his fingers again, mind drifting to the shop and then to his plans and then, as always, to Tony. He thinks of Tony until thinking about Tony is uncomfortable, and then, thinking about entirely unrelated things, realises he’s thinking of him again, so instead he thinks about how suffocating his feelings for Tony are.

There’s a knock on the door. Tony opens it, but doesn’t come in.

“You ok?” he asks, almost shyly, except that Tony doesn’t do shy, so it just sounds brisk and a little flustered. Gordon nods, and Tony hands him a towel. It’s strange to see Tony pretending not to be sneaking a glance as he gets out of the bath; Gordon almost wants to laugh.

Tony takes him to his bedroom and they find Gordon a white dressing gown far too fluffy for Gordon’s liking. None of Tony’s other clothes will fit him, though, and Gordon has spent months refusing to leave shirts at Tony’s lest it lead to a slippery slope of jeans and jumpers.

He lies down on the bed, head buried in the pillow, and Tony curls up next to him uninvited, an arm around his waist, kissing his shoulder.

“I was worried,” he says, simply.

“Do you think we might be bad for each other?” Gordon asks, even as he moves closer to Tony, trying to find some warmth.

“No.”

Gordon turns to stare at him, frowning.

“You didn’t consider it at all,” he says. “Be serious, Tony, I’m–”

Tony doesn’t let him finish, mouth on his, and he’s kissing like he’s trying to make a point. Gordon supposes he probably is. When they pull apart, Tony smiles at him.

“Tell me that wasn’t the best kiss you had tonight.”

It was, of course.

“That’s not the point,” Gordon presses. “Tony, I walked ten miles in the snow just to get back at you. It’s not healthy.”

Tony shrugs.

“That’s just how we are.”

“It’s not normal, Tony.”

Tony laughs, and kisses him again.

“Our fights are better than most people’s… whatever. Whatever normal couples do instead of fighting,” Tony insists, unconcerned. His eyes shine for a moment as he realises he has the upper hand. “Gordon, if either of us wanted healthy, normal lives, we wouldn’t still be working at Red’s.”

“We’re like Red’s?”

“Don’t pretend that doesn't turn you on,” Tony laughs, kissing him; Gordon does his best to look unconvinced, but his chest feels light, and the look on Tony’s face shows he knows he’s won.

“Would you like your Christmas present?” Tony asks, smiling. Gordon groans.

“No,” he mutters into the pillow. “I’m not up for it. I got frozen today, I need to recover. And I hate tinsel anyway. It’s itchy.”

“Oh, it’s not _that_ ,” Tony assures him with a grin. “Though we can talk about that tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I could convince you to like tinsel. I have ideas.”

“You’ve already given me my present,” Gordon points out. “We agreed–”

“I lied,” Tony says cheerfully. “I hid it in the drawer I keep the sex toys in, because you’re scared of it.”

“I’m not scared of it.”

“Go and get your present, then.”

“No. I’m comfortable here.”

Tony laughs and crawls out of bed. There’s an unpleasant moment in which Gordon misses the warmth of his body, but then Tony opens the drawer and pulls a square package from it.

It’s obviously a record, but Gordon still takes it from Tony’s hands with something like suspicion, pulling the wrapping paper off cautiously.

“Oh,” Gordon says, and then his voice catches in his throat.

It’s his music; a copy of the CD he’d made with Robin, years ago. God knows how Tony’s turned it into vinyl. There he is, smiling next to Robin, who’s pretending to read a book. He remembers this photo; they’d chosen it because it’d been one the few they had of him smiling. It feels slightly surreal to be holding it.

“How did you find this?” he asks, still shocked.

“I asked Robin,” Tony explains, smugly, “he sold me his last copy of the CD. At an _extortionate_ rate, admittedly, but I think it was worth it.”

“The money,” Gordon says softly.

This is what he’d been hiding from Gordon’s inquisitions into why he’d been so short on cash lately. It was this. It was for him. He touches the record sleeve- it’s so incredibly well done. It must have cost a small fortune.

“Yeah, I was just paying him the last of it. And then I had a friend remaster it and put it on vinyl,” Tony says, “because–” he puts on his travesty of an attempt at a Scottish accent– “ _‘the sonority is superior’._ According to some handsome bastard I know.”

He’s still smiling, but there's a little nervousness to it.

“I haven’t listened to it yet,” he adds, “I know you’re precious about it.”  

Gordon still can’t bring himself to say anything.

“So,” Tony says, still waiting patiently for a reaction, “I wasn't sure if you would like it, but I can only break Mac’s nose so many times, and–”

Gordon puts the record, as carefully as he can, on the bedstand. Then he pulls Tony into his lap to kiss him, deep and heartfelt until he feels Tony moaning into his mouth. They end up as they usually do, horizontal on the bed, until Tony pulls back, out of breath.

“I know _you_ might not be up for it,” Tony says, pulling Gordon’s dressing-gown closed reluctantly, “but if we continue like this I will be, so perhaps we should stop.”

He slides off Gordon, smug despite his mussed hair and swollen lips. Gordon stares at him, and though he never thought he would be ready for it, suddenly he feels ready to say this. The _rightness_ of it all strikes him, and his habitual hesitation falls away for a single moment.

“Do you still have my keys, Tony?” he asks sleepily.

“On the coffee table,” Tony tells him, shifting in closer. “But you’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“No, it’s ok. I have a copy at Peter’s,” Gordon tells him, hoping he’ll catch on. “I can use those.”

“Why?” Tony asks, frowning.

“Why do you think?” Gordon asks, softly. Tony’s eyes turn huge.

“Is Peter’s key better?” he asks, because Tony is strange and strangely addicted to having these things out loud.

“No, you moron.” God, you’d think this would be easier. “I want you to have a copy of my key.”

And Tony claims _he_ has zero emotional intelligence. Curled up next to him, Tony looks frozen.

“Ah,” he says, finally, and Gordon feels doubt floods back in immediately. It was too far, too fast. He’s become emotional. It was a mistake. He doesn’t normally make errors like this. It must be the snow, he’d been in the snow too long, and it’s made him _weak_.

“Never mind,” he blurts out. “It’s a bad idea. I… I thought it would be funny,” he attempts, desperately. Maybe Tony will accept one of them. “Don’t worry, I’ll take them tomorr–”

“Don’t you _dare!_ ” Tony shrieks back. His eyes are still like saucers, hair sticking up from the kiss. He looks ridiculous. “It’s my key now, you’re not taking it. Go get _yours_ back from Peter, he shouldn't even have it in the first place, I don’t approve of this..."

Gordon smothers a laugh in the pillow as Tony rambles himself into exhausted silence. They stay together, calm and resting, and Gordon wonders if maybe there’s something to Tony’s theory that they are as they should be with each other, unfortunate implications be damned.

“Gordon,” Tony mumbles, closing his eyes. “Sing for me?”

Gordon hasn’t sung _for_ someone since… well, not in ages, and he wants to scoff, but Tony asks with the voice he can’t resist. Not after that gift.

“ _Something in your eyes,”_ he sings, hesitantly, _“is making such a fool of me–”_

Tony opens his eyes, smiling beatifically.

“Madonna?”

Gordon clears his throat.

“The Flaming Lips covered it, actually.”

“Of course,” Tony says, giggling. Gordon feels slightly stupid.

“Forget it,” he says, burying his face back in the pillow.

“No,” Tony says, laughing. “Come on, then.” He sings, a little too high. _“When you hold me in your arms, you love me 'til I just can't see..._ ” Then he raises his head from the pillows and looks expectantly at Gordon, who sighs and grudgingly follows on.

“ _But then you let me down, when I look around, baby, you just can't be found.”_ Tony closes his eyes. “ _Just try to understand, I've given all I can, because you got the best of me.”_

Next to him, Tony has fallen asleep, breathing soft and easy. He watches the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes, sentimentality tugging at his heart.

“Merry Christmas, Tony,” he mutters, entirely to himself.

There’s still a little snow falling outside, although now it’s more like wet icy sleet. Gordon isn’t quite sure that they’re good for each other yet, but he can't quite contemplate life as anything but this mess, and Tony seems sure enough for the two of them.

 

 


End file.
